


Because You Want To Die For Love, You Always Have

by AJfanfic



Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cottage by the Ocean, Destiny, Geralt Dies, Geraskier Week, Grief/Mourning, Inspired by Richard Siken, M/M, Planet of Love, Reflection, What pleases me, burial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22471498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic
Summary: You’re going to dieIn your best friend’s armsJaskier knows this is true. He just doesn't expect it to go the way it does.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635637
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Because You Want To Die For Love, You Always Have

_ You’re going to die _

_ In your best friend’s arms _

Jaskier had known it was true for a long time. Not since meeting Geralt, not since following him for the first time or the second, but since the morning he woke up alone and his first thought was  _ I hope that Geralt is warmer than I am right now _ . It had been his second thought, almost a hope.  _ When I die, I want it to be in his arms. _

It didn’t go the way he had thought it would. When one of them dies in the other’s arms, it’s his arms and Geralt is the one who is dying. It’s Geralt’s hand that shakes when he tries to reach for him and Jaskier who catches it, laces their fingers together, holds their hands against his cheek because he knows what Geralt wanted but couldn’t manage and he could never deny him anything.

He thinks  _ I am so sorry for wishing this was the other way around. I could never wish this on you  _ as he buries him deep beneath the heather at the top of the cliff by the sea. They’d come to the coast when the sickness set in. When the new mutagens turned his body against itself he’d fought hard for every minute. Eventually, he couldn’t ride Roach at a canter without being sick and had to settle in one place. It was so close to the end that Jaskier had pictured for them. Grow old together, retire to the coast, and spend their last days together before some illness took him away and Geralt returned to the Path. In his mind, Geralt would return to that little cottage, every now and then, and he’d sit by Jaskier’s grave. He’d remember their stories and Jaskier’s songs, and he’d find the strength to pick himself up and return to the world.

Jaskier is sixty-seven and he doesn’t know how old Geralt would be because he’d stopped counting at little before the century mark, but he knows that they had spent just shy of fifty years together. They’d never celebrated their birthdays, just that day when they’d met in a little tavern in Posada, each hungry in more ways than they knew. Geralt stopped eating, just a little before the end. It’s how Jaskier knew it was coming. When he didn’t even try to keep down the bread and broth he offered, just shook his head. Jaskier remembers crying, quietly on the front step to not wake him, when he’d finally understood what Geralt had known for a while. There wasn’t some magical recovery coming. This wouldn’t be just another story, just another song to sing when he was back on his feet.

Jaskier had run down the beach as far as he could before his legs gave out. Screamed until his voice grew ragged and his hair stuck to his face with salty tears and sea spray. Broke down where the ocean’s roar could hide his pain from his dying love because he couldn’t add to the pain he knew Geralt was hiding from him. Cried until the thought that Geralt might need him pulled him back to his feet and to the cottage. He was asleep, tear tracks drying on his face. Jaskier didn’t leave him again, not for the two days it took.

_ And you play along because it's funny, because it's written down, _

_ you've memorized it, _

_ it's all you know. _

Those two days had felt like an eternity and now that they’d passed Jaskier swears it had been quicker than a breath. Inhale, together, warm and here. Exhale alone.  _ I figured out what pleases me. _ There’d be a romantic tragedy in it if he’d figured it out afterward, but he hadn’t. He’d known when he said it on that forsaken mountain and he’d known when Geralt came back for him three years later, bleeding on his rented bed in the back of a cheap inn. It had always been him. Standing on the cliff above the sea, Jaskier finds it both romantic and tragic but not in a way compatible with the lecture he’d given on the subject two years before. There’s no song here, no poem. There is the wind and the sea and one man’s breathing.

He’d promised long ago to write them the best songs, to sing them forever. Ones that would make the whole continent love Geralt as he did and hold that love in their hearts forever, bound to catchy melodies and moving stories. Geralt had always said that he made him a hero. Jaskier had always replied no, you are a hero, I just made them see it. He buried him with his silver sword. The one that will never rust away. He keeps the iron one with him, though he’s never been strong enough to wield it. Geralt had laughed, deep and unrestrained, head thrown back when he’d tried to swing it and had only managed to pitch himself to the ground, pulled by its weight. He’d picked up both Jaskier and the sword like they weighed no more than an apple and wrapped a hand over his. They were nearly the same height, but Geralt’s hands dwarfed his. He’d held the sword, with Jaskier tight against his chest, and had gone through the movements of a warm-up with him, guiding him with his body.

They’d wintered at Kaer Morhen that year and Jaskier had watched him go through the same motions with Ciri, the girl whipcord strong and eager to prove herself. Vesemir had sat with him. He’d told him about Geralt, just a boy Ciri’s age and every bit as eager, every bit as scared. Jaskier wonders what has happened to the old witcher. If he knew of Geralt’s death; if he was dead himself. How would he know? There was no one but Jaskier here. No crier to spread the word. The White Wolf is dead! The Butcher of Blakiven is no more! Jaskier wonders if people would think him dead, too. If they thought he’d crawled into a grave after him. The witcher and his bard, one entity at last.

Jaskier wraps their stories and his songs around himself like a cloak. He leans on Geralt’s sword and tightens his pack onto Roach’s back. There are still songs to sing, and he has a promise to keep.


End file.
